The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn Read Online Free PDF

that filled the conference room with the raw light of a city in the grip of a heat wave, but this room was cold – unnaturally cold – and quiet. Through the windows I could see the traffic on the street, but the air in the room was silent and dead.
    I walked toward the window and sat in the chair beside her.
    “Hello, Eve. How’re you doing?”
    Her voice was low and strong. “On a scale of one to ten, I’m about a minus five.” She tried a smile. “They didn’t want me to be alone last night, so I stayed here.”
    “You’re looking fine,” I said, and it was true. She was still wearing the unbleached cotton sundress she’d had on at the picnic, but her thick grey hair was brushed smoothly and caught in a barrette at the back, and her makeup was fresh. On the floor beside her was a bag, a large, tooled-leather bag with a shoulder strap, the kind travellers carry. Withher deep tan and her Greek sandals and her self-contained, slightly abstracted look, she had the air of a traveller who suddenly finds herself inexplicably in the wrong place.
    “Eve.” I covered her strong brown hand with my own. “Dave thinks we should talk.”
    “Sort of widow to widow?” she asked and then she laughed.
    “Yeah, kind of like that,” I said and wondered if the doctors had given her something. “It’s about –”
    “It’s about Andy’s funeral,” she said. “Dave told you he’s afraid that I’ll disgrace you all.” She sounded distanced, ironic.
    I took a chance. “Yeah, that’s about it.”
    “Did he tell you what I want to do?”
    “He said you were thinking about taking Andy home to Wolf River and having a private burial.”
    “And you don’t think I have that right?” Her voice was low and controlled, but there was an edge in it.
    “I know you have that right. It’s just that Andy meant a lot to a great many people, and I think we should give them the chance to say good-bye.”
    She looked at me. Her eyes were extraordinary – grey-green with little flecks of yellow, cat’s eyes that seemed focused on something behind me that I couldn’t see, that I would never see.
    “Of course,” she said, “a big funeral would be good politics. All those people talking about what Andy believed in, and all of you rededicating yourselves to Andy’s principles. By the time we left the cemetery you guys would be way ahead in the polls.”
    She was right. None of us had illusions about the next election. It was, as they say, a crap shoot. The polls were good for us now, but polls change, and it would be nice to have a cushion. A big, emotional funeral would get a lot of print, and we would use the coverage.
    There wasn’t a political person in Saskatchewan whohadn’t thought of the impact Andy’s funeral could have. What amazed me was that Eve had thought of it. Eve hated politics. We all knew that. And she hated political people. I had known Andy fifteen years, and I could count on one hand the number of times Eve had talked to me and on two hands the number of times I’d seen her in public.
    But here she was, sounding as shrewd as a party organizer. She was Protean – changing shape before my eyes – and I was knocked off base. I didn’t know where to take the conversation.
    Eve did. “Jo, what would you do?” Another surprise. Eve asking advice, looking for a reasonable solution.
    Well, I had one. Burying a murdered husband was an area in which I’d had some experience. I tried to keep the relief out of my voice. “I’d do what I did when Ian was killed. I’d ask Dave Micklejohn to arrange everything. I’d show up for the funeral. I’d do the best I could till everything was over and then I’d go home and fall apart.”
    Eve got up, walked to the windows and looked at the street. The minutes passed. I stored away more details about the room in case I ever wrote another political speech for anyone: the smoky glass of the wet bar tucked discreetly in the corner; the handsome oak sideboard with the